


kiss me on the mouth & set me free (but please don't bite)

by IronyisOkay



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Also he's a baby, F/M, He's fine it's just like mentioned, Mild Gore, VERY minor mommy kink, plausible deniability for a LOT of things, plausible deniability for mommy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25982422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronyisOkay/pseuds/IronyisOkay
Summary: He pushes as much of his hand as will fit through the bars, which is three fingers, and practically squeals in excitement as the tortoise nears.“Watch your fingers there, sometimes he--” Gerri cautions.Roman screams.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	kiss me on the mouth & set me free (but please don't bite)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to the Milf Crimes groupchat who exploded with sad theories late one night and forced me to write fluff to cheer myself up! Look what you made me do!

Gerri’s apartment building makes Roman antsy.

He’s standing in the freezing hallway, pacing back and forth in front of her door like he’s casing the joint and he wonders what the security cameras are picking up, this uncharacteristically bashful, idiotic slip of a boy weighed down by three wine bottles (he didn’t know which one Gerri would like best), his laptop, and a briefcase full of papers he hopes they’ll never get around to pulling out. 

He knows that this isn’t anything, really, that she invited him over because they’re going over something _super duper top secret_ and this was the best place away from prying eyes that she could think of. When he suggested his apartment she grimaced, when he suggested dinner, she made a comment about how oh, does he have a new definition of _top secret_ that involves blabbing their business in the middle of a Manhattan restaurant? So here he is. Standing outside of her apartment, shivering under an air conditioning blast, wondering why he can’t bring himself to knock. Nothing personal. Certainly not a date.

He regrets bringing three bottles of wine.

She swings the door open before he has a chance to hesitate further, must have heard his feet shuffling on the mat out front, or maybe she’s just magic. He always suspected that she was a good witch from a fairytale or from the movie about the girl with the glittery red shoes, snaps her fingers and turns dumb little boys like him into geese or mice or pumpkins. She’s wearing the same blouse and pencil skirt she was wearing earlier but her heels are off and her hair is just beginning to curl at the ends. It feels vaguely wrong to see her like after work, like he’s seeing his fifth grade teacher at the grocery store or something. 

“I was beginning to think you got lost,” she says, eying the bag full of wine, and he feels self conscious for a moment, hides it behind his back like that’s going to make it disappear. Like a baby who hasn’t mastered the concept of object permanence. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Roman Roy?” she asks with faint amusement, holding the door open wide enough for him to slink past her inside.

“Wha - no! God. No. I just - I didn’t know what you drank. So. I brought everything. Red, white, pink. I can go back out - do you want me to go back out? I just thought it would be nice. Sorry.” His shoulders are up by his ears and he forces himself to lower them, to breathe. It’s just Gerri. So what if it’s his first time at her apartment? Doesn’t change a damn thing. 

She picks up the bottle of red wine (bold choice. He thinks it’s hot. Like she’s a vampire and he’s about to watch her drink him dry. He’d let her too. Just drink until he’s a dry husk of a boy) and inspects it before giving him a nod of satisfaction. “Very thoughtful of you, Roman. Always nice to have an option.”

He releases a long breath of relief and she gives him a smile before pouring each of them a glass and sliding one over to him. He takes a gulp, watches her sip hers, relaxes as she hums in approval after she swallows. He’s mesmerized every time she eats or drinks, watches her jaw move like he’s never seen such a thing before. It’s such a remarkably human action. Even after years he has a hard time believing that she needs to consume anything at all, like she’s one of those monks that subsides off of light and oxygen or some crazy shit like that.

“So. This is yours? Nice place, actually. Better than the cardboard box in the Holland Tunnel I thought you lived in.” He looks around, drinks in the sight of the apartment, trying to commit as much to memory as he possibly can. If he didn’t know Gerri lived here, he would have a hard time believing it. Even now, with her standing in front of him, he wonders if she’s rented the space for the night, such are the lack of personal touches. No photos of the girls, none of Baird, a few carefully arranged coffee table books and pillows that he’s definitely seen at the Four Seasons. It’s a beautiful, glamorous, permanent hotel room. 

He wonders if she’ll ever invite him back on a night where they don’t have as much to do, where maybe they can watch tv or Gerri can rant at him about the latest atrocities at work or maybe, he thinks, eying the leather armchair in the side of the room, she can put him on his knees and put him to work pleasuring her while she thoroughly ignores him, flips through her phone, checks her emails. That might be fun. 

“Yeah? Good to know it meets your standards.” She takes a seat at the dining table, spreads her papers out, and he inwardly groans, starts looking for any way to delay the inevitable - actually working on the deal they’re supposed to be solidifying. 

“I liked your old place better,” he comments. “I remember it, remember that time you picked me up because I was in Hoboken and I ran out of cash, yeah? And I called you from the payphone because you were the only number that wasn’t in my family I could think of? And then you took me back here and fed me tomato soup and grilled cheese and it tasted sofuckinggood even though it was like...probably Campbell’s and Kraft. I think I was eleven, maybe? And the girls called me a crybaby, and like, I wasn’t even crying. Do you remember that?” 

“I remember.” She’s pushed her papers aside, turned towards him with an expression he can’t read, something like pity? But that wouldn’t be right. Maybe that’s just her condescending look. He’s managed to avoid it for a few hours, he’s getting rusty at identifying it. 

“And then --” His memory is a little fuzzy on this part, so he fights to put his words into an order that makes sense. “I think - you called my dad? And I was like, telling you not to, because that was the whole reason I ran away, because I didn’t want to go back to school. And then he sent Colin to collect me and - I don’t remember much after that.” He remembers enough. He remembers the intense feeling of betrayal he harbored towards Gerri for three years after, he remembers the bruises, he remembers the --

“TORTOISE.” His eyes light up at that, all past pain a faint memory. “Is he still here? Where is he?” He hears Gerri apologizing in the back of his mind, hears her saying that she had a legal obligation to turn a child back over to their parents, that she didn’t know what the situation at home was like, but he’s already shushing her, waving a hand to quiet her as he darts into what he assumes is Gerri’s office, looking around for the tell-tale cage.

“Roman --” She follows him but it’s too late, he’s already found his way into the guest bedroom and he’s crouched down in front of the massive cage tucked into the corner of the room, cooing over the reptile inside. He looks up to see her standing there regarding him with fond amusement, arms crossed. “You two are just alike, you know? Spoiled, lazy, don’t do a thing that’s not for your own pleasure. No wonder you get along so well.” 

He has to grin at that, shrugging sheepishly as she speaks. “At least we’re both cute as hell. Look how cute. Look how great he is, Gerri. You don’t even appreciate him. Whassisname?” 

“His name? Oh - Fitzgerald. Baird named him after the author, just for me. Thought I would find it funny. I really should give him to a zoo or something, I don’t even like the godforsaken creature. Gives me the heebie jeebies. But uh, Baird liked him and the girls didn't want him. Seems a shame to just let a member of the family go like that.” She perches on the edge of the bed, watching them interact. “You want to feed him? I think the maid already did but a few more dandelions won’t kill him.” 

“Yes. Ohmygodyes.” This is like his birthday and Christmas and the time Kendall threw up on the rollercoaster for babies at Brightstar when he was fifteen, all wrapped into one. He waits impatiently for Gerri to shake a few dandelions from the pouch into his hand and extends one to Fitzgerald, who looks up in interest. He pushes as much of his hand as will fit through the bars, which is three fingers, and practically squeals in excitement as the tortoise nears. 

“Watch your fingers there, sometimes he--” Gerri cautions. 

Roman screams.

So it turns out they’ll be able to save his finger, which is the important part. It’s his middle finger, now wrapped in gauze and perpetually sticking straight out, which feels fitting. Convenient too, he can flip the world off without hardly lifting his hand, then claim plausible deniability if anyone protests. They were able to stitch up the wound, apply some sort of fake skin thing that nauseated him to even consider. He hates that fucking tortoise. Gonna make mock turtle soup and slurp it out of his shell. 

His shirt is covered in blood, which is a shame because he liked the shirt. Gerri liked the shirt. Once said it worked for his complexion, said he was a winter or a fall or - something, he didn’t really follow. Anyway. It was his favorite shirt.

Gerri was shockingly clinical about the entire thing, quick to wrap his hand in a tea towel and apply pressure, quick to bundle him into the back of his car while he was still whimpering in shock and pain and the fear that he couldn’t possibly have any more blood in his body to lose. She was the one who held the towel in place as she helped him into the hospital, still numb at the sight of his finger hanging halfway off, who helped him into the ER waiting room, filled out his paperwork for him while he was trying his best to keep his tears of shock and pain at bay, wrapped an arm around his shoulders until they rushed him back into a room, sat next to him and held his free hand while they stitched him up and bandaged his poor hand. She didn’t tease him once. Not one sharp, snippy little word about how he got what was coming to him, how Roman Roy finally met the one creature bold enough to bite back and look where it got him. She just brushes his hair back from his forehead and murmurs how well he’s doing, what a good boy he is, so brave while they stitch him up, and for once he drinks it all up, concentrates on her soft, lilting voice instead of the searing pain in his finger.

He rides back to his apartment in the back of her town car, curled up on the seat with his head in her lap, knees drawn to his chest while she plays with his hair. The pain meds have his head swimming and he’s too sleepy to sit upright, which seems like a fair excuse for why he’s gradually moved from his side of the car to resting his head on her shoulder, then from her shoulder to her lap. If her driver notices anything, he doesn’t mention it, which is always a plus in a driver. ”Remind me to throw an NDA and a million bucks at that guy,” he yawns, reaching up to wrap one of her curls around his finger. She doesn’t pull away, which is surprising. Maybe he should get hurt more often, give her more excuses to be this soft with him. “Why do you like that thing anyway? It’s bitey and gross and ugly.”

“Oh, I dunno.” She combs her fingers through his hair, traces down his cheek to cup his jaw, and he thinks she can see a flicker of a smile on her face at each passing streetlight. “Maybe I like things that are bitey and gross and ugly. You thought you were both pretty cute earlier.” With that, she leans down and ghosts her lips over his, not a lingering kiss, nothing that he can grab onto later, run through in his memory while he’s falling asleep, but when he sits up on his elbows, chasing more, she’s already turned her head, gazing out the window like the thought of kissing him never even entered her pretty head. 

“Hey, _hey_ ,” he protests, lifting his hand and flipping her off with his bandaged middle finger. “I’m bitey and gross but I’ll have you know I’m a solid ten in most countries and a few provinces.”

“On what, a hundred point scale? Hardly a boast.” 

“Be nice to me,” he whines. “Your tortoise nearly took my fuckin’ finger off. Technically, I could sue your ass for everything you’ve got. It still hurts like hell.” 

“Yeah?” He can tell she’s got a glint in her eye even though it’s too dark for him to see. “Poor ickle Roman. Can’t move faster than a tortoise, famously the slowest creature in the animal kingdom. What do you want, Mommy to kiss it better?”

The sound of her mocking goes straight to his dick. Fucking sexy bitch. 

“Mm. Yeah, actually, yeah, maybe. I think it’s the least you could do, after you nearly get me mauled by a wild animal. I’m gonna start a petition, have that thing put down.”

He knows she’s rolling her eyes, hears her tsk her tongue and wishes she would shove it inside his mouth instead, shut him up instead of always leaving the lingering tension over his head. But then she’s taking his hand, presses a kiss to the offending finger that he can feel through the gauze, and gently tucking it back into his lap, and it’s probably just the placebo effect or the painkillers kicking in, but he imagines it smarts just a little less, just enough to be manageable. 

“Thank you, Mommy,” he mumbles, closing his eyes again. He’s on the edge of dozing off, lulled to sleep by her hand in his hair again, when the car pulls up to his apartment building and Gerri is nudging him awake, gently shaking his shoulder. 

“Come on, turtle food, here you are, your charming little provincial cottage.” She helps him sit up, inspects his hand one more time to make sure the gauze hasn’t slipped, and gives his finger one more kiss for good measure.

“You should come up with me,” he says, giving a weak little cough to demonstrate his frailty. “I might - I think the pills are messing with my head. I dunno which apartment is mine. I think you’ll have to help me find it.” 

“Oh, I’m sure some pretty young thing will happily let you sleep on their couch, as pitiful and puppyish as you are. Out with you, I’m tired.” She pushes him out of the car, hand on his back, but he lingers before he closes the door.

“Hey.” A thought just popped into his head. “Hey, I uh, I left my paperwork at yours. And my laptop, what am I gonna do without my laptop? And we didn’t even go over the deal tonight.” 

“Mm.” She acts like she just realized too, even though she can’t remotely fool him. She’s not spontaneous, she’s had this deal on the calendar for weeks. “Mm. Rather interesting. I, uh, I’ll have your laptop waiting for you when you come back over tomorrow night.” 

“I - oh. Tomorrow night?” His jaw is slack and he knows he looks like a goldfish in human clothing.

“You’re a smart boy, I’m sure you can find your way back. You’ve got a tortoise to seek revenge upon and we’ve got a lot of wine to drink if I’m not mistaken. Goodnight, Roman.” 

She leaves him standing on the sidewalk, cradling his injured finger and watching the town car speed away.


End file.
